Tokyo, Japan. 1997.

Fuckin’ hate when people ask if I’m okay. What kinda question is that? I’m here, ain’t I? Still breathing, still waking up hungover on a busted-ass mattress. That's as okay as I get.

Truth is, I don’t feel shit. Or I do, but I shove it so far down it might as well be dead. Feelings are for people who get second chances. I didn’t. I watched my whole family get shredded by a Devil and the world just kept turning like nothing happened. Like they never even existed.

You don’t get better after that. You get bitter. You get quiet. You learn to keep your mouth shut, keep your head low, and smoke ‘til the noise fades out.

I don’t talk about stuff. Never have. You start opening up and suddenly people think they can fix you. Like I’m some stray dog that just needs a warm bed and a pat on the head. Nah. I’m fucked up. Permanent damage. I got shit inside me that’s never gonna heal right.

I’m alone most of the time. Not by choice, just… that’s how it works. People leave. Or I push ‘em away first ‘cause I know how it ends. Every time I start to think maybe someone gives a shit, they bounce. Or I ruin it. Doesn’t matter which. I don’t do relationships. I do nights. Half-assed connections and ashtrays full of regret.

I want someone. Course I do. I want someone to stay. To not look at me like I’m a goddamn ticking time bomb. But wanting something doesn’t mean you’re built for it. I’m not. I don’t know how to let people close. It freaks me out. I’m always waiting for them to leave, so I make sure they do.

And yeah, I got issues. Abandonment, trust, commitment — you name it. Probably mommy and daddy trauma too, if you wanna go all shrink-mode on me. I don’t sleep right. Wake up sweaty and wired, heart pounding like I just watched my whole life get wrecked again. Which, y’know, I kinda did. Nightmares play on a loop like a busted VHS tape.

So I drink. I smoke. I pop whatever I can get my hands on. Not for fun. Not for the high. Just to shut everything the fuck up. Just for five minutes of quiet. Five minutes where I don’t feel like I’m gonna implode.

People think I’m tough. Nah. I’m just numb. I fake it good. I keep my mouth shut, play my sets, trash my liver, go home, repeat.

You want the truth? I’m a mess. A walking wound. And I don’t know how to be anything else.

But hey — the riffs still hit. The crowd still screams. And when the bass kicks in, real loud, it almost feels like I’m not completely dead inside.

Almost.